Brela swallowed. “Because it belonged to my father.”
Cason felt the raging fire in his chest flicker at the sadness that flashed through Brela’s eyes. The truth. Four hells, no wonder she had demolished Gerrart’s home—he had killed her father for this blade.
Brela, the rightful heir to the Veil Worshippers. She had given up her freedom forCason,knowing her title would make her the highest target in Anfroy and Rooke. Would make her capture and torture the most brutal, her death the most prized honor. That’s why she demanded safety.
Cason didn’t hesitate to hand her the blade now, even though his instincts told him to hate her and to not let her near something so symbolic and powerful. He even pretended not to see the crushing weight of thankfulness that rushed over her features as she pulled the dagger toward her chest and closed her eyes. She was the deadliest assassin who now possessed the deadliest blade in Valisea history. And at any second, she could turn on him and the prince.
With her eyes still closed, she reached out her left hand and wiggled her fingers toward him. “The throwing knife, too.” When it wasn’t in her hand after a single breath, she fixed her pale blue eyes on him with a glare. “I’m well aware you’ve grown attached to my blade, but unless you plan to use it,magic-wielder, I am still severely disadvantaged.”
Cason grumbled but plucked the blade from his belt and slapped it into her palm. She smiled and stuck her tongue out before they both turned to the advancing Wraturo. Eight-hundred paces away now. He jerked his head toward the man and woman to their left. “I assume you were communicating a strategy to your friends?”
Brela only shrugged as she shook out her legs, a grin still plastered on her face. “Don’t die.”
“Wonderful,” Cason sighed, rolling his eyes. “Serill, stay behind us.”
“Fine by me,” the prince said, taking a few steps back.
Cason watched Brela twist the Veil Scholar’s dagger through the air, the movements flawless and precise, as if the dagger was just an extension of her. And he realized that in a way, it was. The Night Terror assassin, wielding the Veil Scholar’s dagger that had belonged to her father and now rightfully belonged to her.
Brela nodded to her friends who stood ready just ten paces away from them. The man had two swords drawn, stolen from the soldiers they had knocked out, the woman with one of her own, the daggers she had held earlier strapped to her thighs.
“I bet you two regret trying to rescue me,” Brela shouted at them.
“Just keep the blood inside your body this time,” the man shouted back.
The woman held back a laugh. “Please, keep antagonizing her. She’s already cursed three times during this shit rescue and I’m poised to win the bet.”
Insane. These three assassins were absolutely insane, and they were all going to die. Betting on how often Brela cursed, joking about not getting injured, and very possibly thinking their impossible situation was the perfect time to flirt. The man and woman smirked and winked at Brela, almost at the same time as she returned the gesture.
Oh, gods, theywereflirting with each other.
Brela turned back to Cason. “Well, Captain, what have you been counting out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Oh, gods.“I haven’t been counting.”
The fire almost erupted with the realization. Cason could only stare at the blonde assassin and the wicked grin she returned to his blank look.
“Good,” she purred, her tongue darting over her teeth and lips. “We don’t have need for a tamed dragon when we’re outnumbered.”
That glint in her eyes brightened with a hunger that rivaled the one she gave him at the auction. Four hells, it rivaled Maeve’s, and he felt it fuel the fire swirling inside him—like he really was a dragon ready to burst.
As if she could see the burning that begged to be released from his skin, Brela smiled wide and tightened her grip on her blades. “Let’s see that fire burn.”
Brela turned and sprinted straight for the Wraturo.
And four hells, did that fire burn.
* * *
Her muscles burnedas she danced between bolts of lightning and ropes of flame and ice. Sweat ran down every inch of her body, or perhaps it was blood. At this point, she was too deep in the mess to tell the difference. Too deep into her Night Terror song to remember her own name.
She felt the world as if it belonged to her, as if it merely existed to let her play. She twisted around iron jaws and blackened blades of the horrid creatures that screamed as she cut them into nothing.
She became Night Carver, the blade that was an extension of her soul. Every shadow that touched her became power and strength. Every cut and slice fueled that magic inside her, but she kept it controlled. Like flame and smoke and liquid, she tamed the celvusa inside her chest, drawing the walls of obsidian around to cage the beast that roared in her heart and mind.
And when the shadow wolf was safely contained and the roaring died from her ears, she looked around and saw what had become of her song.
She remembered the others first. The Wraturo bodies that scattered the red-stained meadow, iron shattered and bones splintered around her feet. She remembered Farrah’s wide blue eyes and slender frame, drenched in the blood of her enemies but none of her own spilled. The beautiful woman was dwarfed by Elias’s panting chest and glittering emerald eyes, his own strength radiating through muscles that cried like her own.
